It is a delicate task to write a book in which the main character repeatedly ruins the life of and frightens almost to death another major character and to make that protagonist sympathetic. You understand why he does what he does, you see how he fools himself into believing the consequences of his actions will not be bad as they truly unfold to be, and you watch with great empathy for both him and his victim. It is a balancing act to show such obsessive love as Andrew Sean Greer does in The Confessions of Max Tivoli while not shirking from the end results of such love.Let me just also add that this demanding balancing act also has to exist within the confines of an entire book built around a peculiar fantastical device. Like something quite similar to the joke conceit of the Jonathan Winters character Mearth from 70s sitcom, Mork & Mindy, the titular protagonist is born a shriveled, decrepit old man who grows physically younger as he ages chronologically. We are spared the considerations of scale in the actual birthing process by the oddity of Max being infant-sized then rapidly growing into the size and shape and appearance of a 70 year old man. Seventy is indeed the magical number, Max’s apparent age always 70 minus his chronological age. Thus the book opens with what appears to be a twelve year old writing down his experiences over the last 58 years.Starting from his birth in 1871, Max’s experiences also manage to form some rather fine historical set-piece writing by Greer filled with a sort of filigreed detailing, small touches here and there like a man’s vulcanized rubber tooth fillings, a beetle attached to a minuscule gold chain worn as a leashed pendant, whorehouse tricks with latch keys. And so we have here on our hands what amounts to a romanticized fantasy historical novel about the corrosive effects of obsessive love wrapped up in a morbid reflection on one’s own ever present mortality. Did I mention this is only Greer’s second novel?While the course of the story sometimes veers into sentimentality, it never feels terribly mawkish or absurd, more an outgrowth out of a certain type of young man who grew up in a certain time and place. Greer directs him right into the kind of trouble a seventeen year old would get up to, falling in love with a girl a little younger, then stirs up the tensions with the fact of Max’s fifty year looks. Alice, the object of his affection, we get to watch grow up the normal fashion, as Max’s desperate pursuit of her, her inability to believe his tale, and his dying quest to end his life with her, slowly warp and twist her life into a thing of hidden bitterness.Originally falling in love with Alice when she is the fourteen year old daughter of his family’s tenant, Max kisses her one night after her heart is broken by another boy. This leads to her mother packing up all their belongings and moving away, disappearing into the turn of the century, escaping the apparent child molester. When he refinds Alice, it is a charming moment, Max given a second chance at love in a strange new way. Greer knows how to sweetly slide the blade in. “This sounds like a wretchedly broken heart, you’re thinking; this sounds like revenge.” When they both confess to each other the story of their first kisses, meaning each other years ago, it is a fanciful dance of perspective, hers filling in the other half of the story, his avoiding it. Max should learn from this a lesson his entire life should have prepared him for: your perspective is not reality.Indeed, it is Max’s inability to see past his own specific wants and desires that is the novel’s weakest element. Max ought to know better than anyone that perception can radically depart from reality and he ought to better understand Alice’s reaction to the old him of years ago and how he cast a shadow over her present life with him. That he remains so trapped in his own ideas can’t be excused by his — what shall we call it? — temporal condition because his entire life is lived according to the precept his parents instilled in him “Be what they think you are.” At one point he muses, “What do we abandon to claim our heart’s desire? What do we become?” but the question is rather moot as he never does this, even in the face of Alice’s horror.I had, while listening, a great sense at the book’s beginning that the author wanted to write a deep, intellectual book with a fantastical conceit, wanted to show us the real world, the simpler, more profound world under all our nonsense, but it didn’t seem at first as if Greer were really capable of writing that kind of book. As things moved along, the book started to work on me, yet there remained a nagging feeling that this wasn’t smart enough, nor clever enough, not sensitive or wise enough to pierce the skin of existence quite as deeply as he wanted. I was won over to the book after some initial struggle, but that tense feeling remained until I read through many of the quotes I took from the novel, until I had time away from the actual reading of it.And that was when it struck me how instrumental a reader can be to one’s judgment of a novel, and how correct my wife was in insisting that part of what made listening to an audiobook fundamentally different from reading it was the interpretive spin a reader brought to the words. Keeler has a saccharine voice on the high end of the register, a pleasant tootling little trumpet better suited to mystery novels wherein cats solve crimes and smoke meerschaums while dressed in feline model deerstalkers.This story is a sad one, melancholy, bitter even, yet Keeler reads as though he were narrating one of those sweeter Hallmark Presents coming-of-age made-for-TV movies. Lines like “We all hate what we become,” referring to the self loathing that comes over us as we age, is not a sticky line of plucked heart strings, but the reader sounds like a well-coifed, friendly uncle telling you a charming tale of sleeping princesses. “The body, that pale spider, stuns the mind” is another fine phrase made a bit treacley by the narration. Occasionally, he can work his voice up to a sneering emotion, such as the elderly Max’s irritation at having to pretend to be a boy and learn the times tables, but this edge is missing throughout when it is most necessary.It is for this reason that I have pledged to revisit this novel some months from now, long after the effects of a particularly cloying reading have vanished, long after the taint may have subsided, when I can return to Max Tivoli once more. I plan to dilute the effect prior to this by tracking down Greer’s other works, his debut novel, The Path of Minor Planets as well as his short story collection, How It Was for Me. It is clear from his abilities here that Greer writes with an uncommonly confident style.
Pentru ca toata lumea se leaga de The Curious Case of Benjamin Button cand scrie despre cartea asta, refuz sa fac comparatie intre cele doua. La Fitzgerald era mai mult o idee interesanta prezentata rapid, iar personajul nu e nu-stiu-cat de afectat, e oarecare, la Greer e un blestem care e prilejul de transmitere a altor idei. Pana la urma, ce vrea Greer sa spuna, mai departe de "Fiecare dintre noi e dragostea vietii cuiva" (prima propozitie care oricat de siropos ar suna, pana la urma duce la un triunghi interesant, asemanator cu cel din Pamantul de sub talpile ei - brutala comparatie, dar ma rog..) e cat de multe feste ii joaca timpul omului - chiar daca i se scurge in directia care trebuie - prin aceea ca niciodata nu e timpul potrivit si cand e, nu dureaza mult. Tragico-melodramatica | concluzie, ati zice.Timpul potrivit pentru Max Tivoli e, ca si pentru B.B., la mijlocul vietii cand isi traieste si fizic varsta reala. In adolescenta, cu o infatisare de batran se indragosteste de o fata de 14 ani, chiriasa sa care, evident, il priveste cel mult ca pe un protector. Primii ani ai vietii sint pentru Max Tivoli cei mai importanti cand isi stabileste obsesiile pe care le urmeaza toata viata - isi gaseste si primul prieten care ii cunoaste secretul, isi invata rolul, si-o gaseste pe Alice, The One.Regula lui Tivoli, stabilita de mama sa in copilarie, "Fii cine cred ei ca esti", e intr-un fel semnificativa doar in cazul Alice, mama ei si in general, apropiatii. Ceilalti oameni sint doar fundalul, ceva vag si sters, Max nu sufera pentru ca nu se poate adapta acolo, ci mai curand ca nu poate fi acceptat unde vrea el - in cercul lui intim si ca nu poate sa-si poarte varsta in afara, sa-si strige tineretea ca sora sa. Nepasarea lui pentru orice altceva in afara de drama lui de la inceputul vietii (justificata prin adolescenta) devine egoism si provoaca enervare (cititorului din mine, cui altcuiva?) cand devine imun la faptul ca toti ceilalti au probleme chiar daca pot fi priviti ca ceea ce sint ei. Ramane rece fata de suferintele prietenului ce imbatraneste si ofileste si fata de monstruozitatea sa, neobservata pana mai tarziu, coplesit de regrete.Apare (da, din nou) femeia simbol al vietii, unic sens, perfectiune, dragostea vietii. Iar Tivoli isi traieste iubirea in 3 faze: Prima apare ca pedofilie, a doua e casnicie, dar apreciaza gresit caracterul mult iubitei si moare lent, la propriu, iar a treia, sub forma de copil in fata unei mame adoptive, cand ni se sugereaza nevoia de protectie intr-o relatie, din ambele parti.Mi-a placut stilul lui Greer, nu e rau, are si caderi in patetism, dar nu discordante. Ce-ar putea sa enerveze sunt panseurile prea dese despre singuratate, diformitate, neacceptare, dragoste. Dar macar originale si cu suflul personajului (clar!). Stiu ca pare deja cliseu in gura mea, dar pentru mine atmosfera si constructia de scena ramane cel mai mult timp in memorie, nu personaje, nu vorbe, nici macar idei (ceea ce e rau, probabil). Iar Greer si-a creat bine peisajul de ansamblu si vocea cu care sa spuna ce are de zis. Si calatoria prin America impreuna cu prietenul lui la batranete mi s-a parut de 1000 de ori mai buna decat a lui Kerouac (hai, omorati-ma) pentru ca peisajele nu-mi erau bagate pe gat ca sa simt cat de liberi erau, pentru ca mi se spune clar ca si personajele se plictiseau dupa atata mers, nu doar noi, muritorii. Si si serile pe veranda mi-au placut, desi Alice adolescenta ma agasa. Si schimbarile bruste din viata lor si atmosfera din casa lor de casatoriti cu faianta din farfurii sparte. Si zapada din San Francisco in care se pierd urme, si Woodward's Gardens, chiar si la sfarsitul sfarsitului zilelor de glorie. Ah, si placut scena de conversatie dintre prieteni la batranete:Dupa multi ani, cand am imbatranit amandoi si am inceput sa uitam, i-am adus aminte lui Hughie de dupa-amiaza aceea la Woodward's Gardens, cand ne-am vazut pentru prima oara sub balonul miraculos al profesorului Martin. [..:]-Balon? intrebase el. Nu prea cred.-Ba da, era un balon argintiu urias si tu m-ai intrebat ce-o mai fi ala.[...:]-Uiti tot felul de lucruri, Hughie. Esti batran.-Si tu la fel, remarcase el. [..:]-Era un balon, asa ne-am imprietenit.-Nu-i adevarat, eu ti-am aratat un numar de magie pe scara.-Nu-mi aduc aminte ca tu sa fi stiut smecherii cu carti de joc.Isi scosese ochelarii.-Am intrat in casa cu tata. Tu incercai sa te ascunzi dupa usa ca un copilas, desi aratai ca senatorul Roosevelt in costum de marinar. Erai foarte caraghios. Am scos dama de pica dintre frunzele ferigii si de atunci ai inceput sa ma admiri.-Ma rog.-Ma rog.Amandoi priviseram spre parcare, plictisiti si fara astampar in calatoriile noastre, sperand sa aflam acolo ceva familiar. Ne-am intors la ziar si respectiv, la chioraitul matelor si n-am mai vorbit un ceas. Asta inseamna sa ai un prieten vechi.Concluzie: placut, nu dat pe spate, dar facut sa ma simt confortabil cand ma apucam de ea dupa o pauza. Si asta ii trebuia cuiva care nu mai citise de mult si care nu mai are perspective de citit in viitorul apropiat.:)obs:1. pentru ca probabil n-am reusit sa zic cum trebuie de ce cine nu-i excesiv de cinic poate sa se apropie linistit de ea, aici e ceva mai bine conturat.2. coperta romaneasca e groaznica, nu vad ce treaba are cu totul, in afara de faptul ca personajul isi scrie memoriile (cartea, practic) cu un pix. partea proasta e ca indeparteaza lumea cu rozul ala. mda.
Do You like book The Confessions Of Max Tivoli (2005)?
This is one of the better books I've read in quite awhile. Part of this is because I haven't been reading much this year, but also this is a beautifully worded book, a delicious slow read with an imaginative premise and poetry and philosophy on nearly every page. It has, however, two unforgivable flaws.The most glaring unforgivable flaw is the ending, which is frankly unworthy of the rest of the book, in the words of my true love "a cop-out all around." I won't discuss that here (but might on my blog in a day or two, if I have time) because it is still a wonderful book, and you should read it if you find yourself with the time and opportunity. I don't want to spoil it for you; there is a mysteriousness to it which is part of the pleasure of just letting it unfold, and despite some questionable narrative conveniences here and there, the real sinking weakness doesn't happen until the last ten pages. At that point there is a choice the author could have made, and it would have been the right choice, the smart, generous, and credible choice, and he talks about it as the character who should have made it, and then he doesn't choose it but instead picks the most melodramatic, least credible, and most heartless finish, and wraps it all up in pretty, impassioned words that I guess are supposed to make it romantic and Supremely Human but instead just make it go on too long.The other unforgivable flaw is a completely gratuitous episode of animal cruelty which happens on pp. 106-109 of my edition (which says it is the first edition but has a "Today's Book Club" logo worked into the cover design). This is a terrible, terrible scene, and it adds nothing to the book, nothing, especially for the type of reader most likely to enjoy this book, someone already well aware what that time and place were like, but now it is stuck in my head forever. (Oh, thanks.) I highly recommend you bleep over it when you come to it.It is a credit to the writing of this book that I didn't slam it shut at this point and throw it away. I did read the rest of the book warily, though, and will not automatically reach for another book by this author because inclusion of this scene as well as the insufferably weak choices that the author made at the very end of his own tale lead me not to trust him to tell me a story on which I will be glad to have spent time. I don't regret most of the time spent on this one, though. The wordcraft alone was quite dazzling.
—Sara
I loved the movie Benjamin Button. I loved Brad Pitt playing Benjamin Button. Not even the idea of visualizing Brad Pitt reading me this book while soaking up some sun with a margarita in hand would make this book any better.I cannot remember the last time I disliked a character so much all I wanted to do was punch his whole face in. Whiny, selfish and immature, Max Tivoli kind of makes me hate Brad Pitt, and all the man did was play the main character in the adaptation of this book. And while I had planned to read Greer's other books I think I'm gonna treat his work like 9/11...never again.
—Kelly
Max Tivoli is born in 1870's San Francisco with the body of an old man which gets younger and younger as time goes on. With this simple and fantastical premise, Andrew Sean Greer manages to construct a very original and rather believable--all things considering--love story (one with gothic overtones). Most of the story is told sixty or so years later, i.e., when Max has the body of a young boy but the life experience and mind of an "old man," as he writes in his journal. Though the writing felt a bit too flowery and overwhelming at times, and Max's selfishness at the end got to be annoying, overall I thought the book quite enjoyable and found it to be one of the more original fictional books I've read recently. A great example of the power of love: both in its timelessness and passion, as well as its obsessional and destructive nature.
—Bobby
